If not the torrid diamond wave that made young life

sublime,

If not the tropic rose that bloomed in every track of

time,

If not exultant passion's glow, when all the world was

fair,

At least one flash of heaven, one breath of Art's immortal air!

Ah, God, make bright, for many a year, on Beauty's heavenly shrine,

This hallowed fire that Thou hast lit, this sacred soul

of Thine!

While love's sweet light and sorrow's tear,-life's sunshine dimmed with showers,

Shall keep for aye his memory green in these true hearts of ours!

"BEING REMEMBERED."

One morning in the old Plaza Hotel in New York, where Irving several times lodged, we had been talking of the relief of Mafeking, the news of which had just been received, and of the gallant defence of that place by BadenPowell, his intrepid spirit and indomitable

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325

resolution. "He is a great man," said Irving: "he has done a great thing. I should like to send a message to him. I think it would please him; I know it would." Then, after a pause, he added: "I'll send a cable." Bram Stoker, Irving's expeditious business manager, while sympathetic with the feeling and the purpose thus signified, expressed doubt whether a despatch could be sent through to Mafeking, and also mentioned the cost. "Never mind," said Irving, "we'll try it. He's a great man. He has done a wonderful thing." Then he dictated this cable: "Well done. Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor!-Henry Irving, New York." Stoker remarked that the words "New York" at the end were not necessary and would increase the charge. Irving, however, insisted that they should be used, saying: "It isn't the words, it's the being remembered. A man likes to be remembered when he's far away. A despatch from New York will seem more than one from London." And so the message was immediately sent.

He remembered even the most casual remarks

that were made in his hearing; he never forgot a face or a name, and his faculty of observation was as fine as his faculty of memory. Without seeming to see, he saw everything that was going on around him. Once, when he and I, in earnest conversation, were walking slowly along beside the Thames, not far from Hampton Court, he said: "We have been followed for some time by a man who is trying to overhear us; let us turn back." I had not been aware that anybody was near. Long afterward, in New York, I received a letter from a stranger, stating that he had followed us at that time and place, and had either taken or tried to take a Kodak picture of us. Irving's vigilant eyes had seen the man from the first, and he had taken the fortunate precaution of speaking in a low tone,-fortunate because he had been telling me the sad story of a lovely girl, dear to him in his youth, who had been betrayed by a distinguished comedian, who thus inflicted on Irving, in early life, an injury which he never forgave and a sorrowful loss which he never forgot.

A GREAT HEART

327

"DETRACTION WILL NOT SUFFER IT!"

It has been said of Irving that he lacked feeling, that he was all mind and no heart. Speaking to me, Ellen Terry said: "He is gentle, not tender." The late Henry Labouchere wrote of him that "he was always acting." Greater errors could not have been made. Irving knew enough of human nature to know that it is frequently selfish and in many ways infirm, and he realized that "there is no art to find the mind's construction in the face"; but, essentially, he was one of the most loving and lovable of men,-when and where he fully trusted. He was singularly sensitive to kindness, and any little token of remembrance that reached him from a friendly hand,-if it were only a trifle, as inconsiderable as a cravat or a cigar case, was treasured by him with a gratitude almost pathetic. But he did not "wear his heart upon his sleeve," and he did not trust many persons. He had suffered much, and he was lonely to the last. He was one of the most intellectual persons that ever trod the stage, but

those who knew him best could testify that his sympathy was as wide as the widest experience of mankind and as deep as the deepest feelings of compassion and tenderness that ever possessed the human heart.

Hamlet remarks that a great man must "build churches," if his memory is to outlive his life half-a-year. Irving did not build churches,but he is not forgotten yet, though he has been dead ten years, and he never will be forgotten, "while memory holds a seat in this distracted globe." The detraction, however, which could not suffer his honorable preeminence while he was among the living, has been active in seeking to disparage him since his death. A passing reference is here appropriate to certain derogatory remarks about him that, sad to say, have been published, by that wonderful and deservedly eminent actress who, for a quarter of a century, was his honored professional associate. "Henry Irving was an egotist." That statement is made by Ellen Terry, in her Autobiography. "As I think it," she adds, "I may as well say so." There are many of Miss